Posts Tagged ‘repetition compulsion’

Flotsam And Jetsam

January 19, 2016

I don’t have an idea about what I am going to write.

Just a bunch of disjointed things floating around my head.

I have a flat tire on my bike, which is annoying and I am super lucky I made it back to the house before it went all the way.

I thought it was soft this morning, pumped it up, broke the pin on the valve and sort of went the whole ride wondering if it was going to go.

Then promptly forgot about it as I had an early day at work and the minute, I mean the second I brought my bike over from my descending place–I usually land a few minutes early and stretch (this did not happen, I did not realize, only in hindsight, that my tire’s low inflation point probably spelled out a slower ride in, I was a little surprised to see I didn’t have as much time as normal to get into work mode)–it was go time.

But I also was surprised by an old friend driving past in his car who stopped and chit chatted me for a few minutes.

I could feel the boys watching and as soon as I wheeled my bike over and opened the garage I could hear them banging on the windows and doors and chanting my name.

Now.

That’s the way to come to work.

Can you imagine?

Going into work and all your co-workers are banging on the doors and walls because they are so excited to see you?

It’s rather amusing.

As were some ridiculously cute bon mots from the boys today.

“Carmen, do you know what’s always in season?”  In response to a question asking for berries that are out of season.  “Ice cream,” the five year old said and wrapped his arms around me.

I got lots of I love you’s and I missed you’s and loads of hugs and snuggles.

I read them a lot of stories this morning and then we went out and did the park and also Crepehouse for lunch.

Today was a holiday at school so I was there much earlier then normal.

I’ll be going in at 9:30a.m. tomorrow and working until 6p.m.

I did 10a.m.-6p.m. today.

Extra hours on the week and some extra cash in the pocket.

I’ll probably grab a car in tomorrow, it’s supposed to rain as well, so it wouldn’t have been the most optimum day for a bicycle ride in anyway, but it is annoying to deal with the tire.

It’ll work it’s way out.

The day is long, but it did go by quick, for which I am grateful.

Glad that I can help the family by coming in early, but I do like my routine, although having just come from a school weekend I am used to getting up a little earlier than normal.

Anyhow.

It is what it is.

It’s a full week too.

Lots of work, doing the deal, meeting up with ladies, old and new, and then getting a new hair do this weekend.

Although last night my hair looked so good I almost thought about canceling the appointment.

Almost.

I haven’t had my hair done in a bit and it will be fun.

Things feel like they need shaking up for me and a hair geographic usually does the deal.

I also inevitably get asked out on a date.

Jesus.

Why the hell haven’t I done my hair sooner?

Heh.

Ah.

Dating.

Okstupid is still a disappointment.

I do wonder why I keep the profile up.

I don’t have any other profiles anywhere so I suppose that’s why.

But it is inevitably disappointing when ever I check it out.

I got lots of sweet comments yesterday on the new tattoo on my social media spots and that was some nice ego massage, but no dates arose from it.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Freud, psychoanalytic theory and my own patterns.

I was told a few weeks ago by my person that I get to continue to be powerless and also that I get to stop romanticizing what I can’t have.

The old unrequited love trope.

Been there.

Done that.

But it continues to resurface.

When I look at the last two men I had romantic dates with they were both coming out of divorces with two girls.

And the guy prior to that.

Another recent divorcee with a kid.

I wonder sometimes if I am not trying, in some desperate way, to rectify the past, to somehow make wrong that right (oh holy shit is that a Freudian slip!), er, make right that wrong, of my parents relationship.

“Believe someone when they tell you who they are,” I was told.

“I’m just coming through a divorce and we have a kid and I still live at the house,” bachelor number one.

“I’m not available for dating, I’m not over my ex-wife,” bachelor number two.

“You are magic!  But I should tell you I’m in the process of getting a divorce and my wife and I haven’t told the girls yet,” bachelor number three.

Ugh.

Martines.

The repetition compulsion, according to Freud, the insanity, according to people I trust and who tell me like it is, it to continue like this–repeating the same thing expecting different results.

Now.

Granted.

All of these men are good men.

And one of them became an extraordinary friend.

I have no complaints about these experiences.

I have, in fact, prayed and practice forgiveness of self all over the damn place.

But as a friend spoke with me tonight and reminded me, gently, this is about me.

Funny thing too, we weren’t exactly talking about dating, but it was about relationships.

So.

This is about learning, even if it feels like something I keep having to learn, about letting go, surrendering, and trying something new.

I have been trying to get back out there.

Even with school.

Even with my heart still on my sleeve.

Even with my head in the clouds about how to do any of it.

With kindness and compassion for myself.

I watch people all over the place date and commit and do the deal and I think, hey,  I can do that too.

So.

I may fall down.

And it may only be practice.

And.

Ugh.

As much as I want to say something else.

Here goes.

I’m single and available for dating.

And.

I’m taking suggestions.

Double ugh.

Haha.

They will probably be the same ones I have already tried.

But fuck it.

I only I have this one life.

And it’s too sexy to waste.

I Got Poked Today

November 18, 2015

I got poked a week ago.

That sounds weird doesn’t it?

Poking.

What the fuck is that?

Thanks Facecrack for “Like” and “poke.”

Where would my life be without the ubiquitous thumbs up sign on my life.

And the poke.

I mostly ignore.

In fact, that’s what happened with this guy.

I got poked a week ago.

It’s like a soft feel out.

Hey, there, girl, I’m thinking about you, but either I don’t have the balls to reach out directly, or I’m curious to see if maybe you’re interested, by, say, poking me back?

And what did I do?

I took the bait.

I poked back.

And then I forgot it.

Until I got the message saying, hey gorgeous, long time, I’m in town, let’s hang out, I’d love to see you.

And.

BTW.

I’m single.

Well.

Hello.

It’s been a few years since I have spoken to this particular gentleman and suffice to say since there are folks who know folks who know folks, I’m going to keep this on the very vague.

But the BTW I’m single bit.

Well.

Turns out I was sleeping with the guy who was not available to be slept with.

And how I found that out?

She messaged me.

On Facebook.

The day before I was leaving for Burning Man?

No.

Ha!

The day I was leaving for Burning Man.

This was right after moving back from Paris, so three burns ago.

Yes.

And I had tried to talk the gentleman in question into coming with.

It would be so much fun.

It wouldn’t have, in hindsight, I worked 23 or 24 days out on playa that year.

I think I might have had two days off?

I digress.

So.

I find out said gentleman, is not in fact quite as gentlemanly as he could have been.

And wow.

I mean.

WOW.

Did I get a message in the inbox.

I was so startled by the message at first, I did not quite get it.

I was confused.

I didn’t recognize the name.

I didn’t know exactly what was going on.

I had to read it again.

More than once.

I was at work and I was nannying, so I was distracted.

And, yes, I was getting ready to leave with the family that I was nannying for to go to Burning Man for three weeks so I didn’t understand why this woman was messaging me on Facecrack about throwing all her boyfriends shit out into the street and how I better let him know that he should call her.

Huh?

Oh.

Oh.

OH FUCK.

I might have slapped myself on the forehead.

And minutes before l was to leave as I was straightening up a few things in the kitchen and the mom was grabbing to go coffees from a cafe and the dad was doing the last-minute cross check and the baby was bouncing around the kitchen, he called.

I recall being a little terse.

I got an excuse for why he never called me back and then.

And then.

And then.

The bomb.

“I asked you not to blog about it.”

Um, excuse me?

I didn’t.

Well.

Ok.

I did.

I did indeed write about having had sex with someone.

But.

I didn’t write his name.

I was so incredibly vague that the most anyone could have gotten out of it was that I had slept with a man.

I mean.

Vague.

Vague as fuck.

But.

Apparently said girlfriend was smart and I won’t go into how she figured it out.

But she figured it out.

Then.

I told him that she had reached out to me.

Silence.

Fumbling words I listened to but did not register.

And I do recall saying, “I thought you were single.”

His response?

“You didn’t know I was in a relationship?”

Um.

No.

Because you never told me.

And yes.

I had asked.

Anyway.

I got poked today.

And I responded back to the poke.

“You get whatever you write about in your blog,” my friend teased me, “new mattress, scooter, trip to Paris for Christmas.”

(Dear blog, I want to get married, and be kissed on top of the ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde, and go on a honeymoon to Venice, and get all As in graduate school, and never have to be a nanny again, unless I’m taking care of my own children.  Dear blog, I would also like to be very securely well off financially so that I don’t have to worry about retirement, student loans, groceries, or health insurance.  Oh, I would also like a Jeep Wrangler, preferably in black, but I will take dark midnight blue and a Bambi Airstream trailer.  Dear blog, I also want to go to Hawaii, I’ve never been and I’m part Polynesian I would like to see where I came from.  Dear blog.  I want to get laid but I want it to be romantic, see, I want my cake and eat it too and icing and fondant, and chocolate sprinkles, and cherries on top, multiple kinds, because why not, and maybe crushed up Almond Joy bars because you know, I want what I want.)

And here it was.

Sex.

Sex on a stick.

Sex.

Poke, poke, poke.

I mean.

I am not stupid.

This was not a let’s go on a date and see if we have chemistry, we obviously had chemistry, but there was this thing, a girl friend, unbeknownst to me, and um, yeah, so you, my friend, good sir, revealed to me exactly who you are and what you are interested in.

Sex.

And.

You know what?

Great.

Sex is smashing.

Sex is awesome.

Yes.

I want sex.

Damn it.

But.

I do not want to be used and I don’t want to have to even think that there might be another woman out there who I am cheating on her boyfriend, husband, lover, with.

That’s called a living amends.

Not sleeping with a married man or a coupled man.

The imperious urge did rear its head.

It happens.

I entertained the thought.

Then you know what I did?

I paused.

I didn’t respond.

I wrote instead.

I read my reader for my Psych(e)analytic class.

There it was, in black and white, The Repetition Compulsion.

Oh fuck my mother.

Did that ring way too close to the truth.

I was looking down the street at a pothole I have fallen into before wondering how close I could get to the edge without falling in.

I walked away from the street.

I crossed to the other side.

I hid in a bush.

I stalled.

I went to work.

I debated.

What do I really want?

Oh.

Like I don’t know.

I do.

I know what I want.

Dear blog.

I want love.

And sex.

Both of them.

It exists.

I know it does.

I don’t have to sacrifice one for the other and I don’t have to worry about one or the other and fuck, hello, I’m in graduate school, when do I have the time to get laid anyhow and he wasn’t that great in bed anyhow.

Note to self.

Ahem.

I get wound up sometimes.

Ha.

I got home.

I had a long conversation with my Psych(e)analytic professor about the paper I wrote and I have to admit, I cried a little on the phone tears mostly, I got to see some characteristics of myself and work with them and her, my professor, that I didn’t like seeing and make some insights that I got from doing the paper clear to her.

I got an A.

Not sure I got a hard A.

I did drop the ball on one half of a salient point that she wanted the paper to make.

So out of three things she was looking for I had 2.5.

That being said, she also said in her 30 years of teaching she had never received a paper quite like mine.

That was nice to hear.

And the timing with the poke, really.

Hahahaha.

How FREUDIAN can you get?

It all aligned.

I can answer the message.

I can repeat the same silly cycle that I have done all my life.

Or.

I can let love in through the front door and be patient while it makes itself at home.

I don’t have to rush it right off to my bedroom.

I can invite it in for a cup or tea.

Or at least a Coke Zero.

And let it take its time.

Time.

I have in abundance.

Love.

There too.

On the threshold.

Standing in the sunshine.

Perhaps I’ll sit patient on the Davenport and feel the plaid patchwork rough under the palms of my hands.

While love takes off his hat and scarf.

Hang them there.

There’s a hook by the door.

Love.

Stay awhile.

Make yourself at home.

I’m not going anywhere.


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